Middle Brendon Dare Shared
William asks Brendon and Brendon chooses dare.
“Truth or Dare, Brendon?”
Like there was even a choice. Gabe could get away with choosing truth, because he basically lived his life like one big dare, and no on thought he was trying to get out of anything. Andy could choose truth because he was a cool, laid back, self-assured guy, and also could kick all their asses if they gave him shit. If Brendon chose truth, he’d be labelled a pussy forever. Besides, dares could be fun, right? Right…
“Dare.” Brendon wondered if his pause had been very noticeable.
William stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I honestly didn’t expect that,” he admitted. “I have to think about this.” He arched brow at his band and they put their heads together, whispering furiously.
Brendon looked hopefully at Spencer. He was scary. Maybe if he glared enough in William’s general direction, it could help Brendon’s case. But Spencer gave him this hand gesture/eye roll thing that told him he was totally on his own.
“Alright.” William straightened his shoulders, tossed back his hair and cleared his throat. “You have to break into Patrick’s apartment and mess shit up. And you have to do it in drag. Vicky gets to dress you, and Ryan can do your makeup.”
“Mess shit up?” Brendon echoed. “Like how?”
William huffed an annoyed breath. “I don’t know. Chew on some wires? Surprise me,” he said haughtily.
“What if he comes home?” Brendon protested. Seriously, pranking just about anyone other than Patrick would be alright, but Patrick scared him.
“Okay,” William said easily. “You nark on us and it’s the Keroroin.”
Brendon’s brow furrowed. “The-”
“Keroroin. There’s a goat, Crisco and confetti,” the Butcher explained. “You don’t want to find out.”
“Or?”
“Or you could just say you were there because you were secretly into him, blow him, and come out of it alive,” Adam said in a reasonable sort of way.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Brendon found himself outside Patrick’s apartment building, in front of the fire escape, facing the prospect of scaling the rusty, rickety ladder and ascending to the third floor. This alone was harrowing enough. But on top of that was the getup Vicky had put him in.
Vicky’s clothing really wasn’t meant to fit Brendon. She had nice curves and Brendon could fit into junior sizes. But she’d dug up slinky silver tank top that bloused at his chest to give the illusion that his bra wasn’t stuffed with socks. It was matched with a pleated black skirt that exposed the curve of his ass every time the wind picked up. And, okay, the high heels she’d given him were not made to scale ladders.
And to add insult to, well, insult (the injury would no doubt come later, when Patrick found out who’d done what to his apartment), Ryan had pulled out all the stops with his makeup. This went so far beyond anything Brendon had done on stage. With lots of shadowing and dark colours, he’d actually managed to give Brendon’s face a more feminine look. He almost didn’t recognise himself blinking back from the mirror-eyes rimmed in impossibly long lashes, cheeks fuller looking, lips peach coloured and glossy. Then Gabe had topped the whole thing off with a black bobbed wig that fell just below his chin. Brendon had to admit that it didn’t look entirely ridiculous.
“Surprise me,” he muttered to himself. What could possibly surprise William Beckett?
Along as ‘moral support,’ though perhaps better defined as assholes who’d come to laugh at his pain and make sure he didn’t try to get out of his dare, were the rest of Brendon’s band, Ryland and Tom. They waved encouragingly from the van at the corner.
Brendon sighed and resigned himself to his fate, even if that fate was to die of a broken neck. Which, really, was preferable to whatever Patrick would do to him when he found out about this.
It shouldn’t have been so easy to use one of the pins from his wig to unlatch the lock on the window of Patrick’s kitchen. The place was dark, but the light from the street lamp was enough that he could see a strange contradiction-the place was sparkling clean except for one half of the table, covered in half-eaten food, dirty dishes and random bottles and cans.
Brendon had always thought that when he was as wealthy and famous as Patrick that he’d have someone to do all his cleaning for him. But maybe it was just that Patrick was only staying here temporarily. Maybe he hadn’t had time to hire any help.
The hallway went two ways from the kitchen, one way branching off to the living room with a large flat screen television, a beaten up leather sofa, and a kit, a keyboard, and a guitar. He hadn’t known that Patrick was still playing drums, but the set looked well loved. Off the living room was a half-closed closet door from which was spilling a pile of clothing and shoes.
He went through the living room and kitchen, changing the time on all the clocks to random, mismatched times. It took him a good ten minutes on the floor in front of the entertainment centre, to switch all the DVDs to different cases. His sister had always got a good laugh doing that to him. And then he realised that the pranks he and his Mormon friends and family had played when he was a child were not the sort of pranks that would impress William.
While he was considering just what he could do, he explored the opposite hallway. The first door was a bathroom, mostly clean, but with a pile of dirty towels and clothing in the corner. He’d found some beef bouillon when he’d fucked up the kitchen. One of his friends in high school had told him about putting it under the showerhead, so that when the next person used it they came out smelling like soup.
Other friends in school had talked about the saran wrap on the toilet seat prank, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Patrick was, like, too dignified for Brendon to make him splash his piss all over the place. Also, too scary. Instead he just rubbed Vaseline on the toilet seat and unscrewed the light bulbs.
Patrick’s bedroom was the other door down that hall, and didn’t look much like what he’d expect of Patrick’s bedroom. It was all black, white and chrome with boldly coloured framed posters. Honestly, it didn’t look like the sort of room that Patrick would live in.
He went around the room doing stupid little things like, turning all the pictures around in their frames (and oddly, none of the people in the pictures were at all familiar), pulling all the clothing out of the drawers, and unscrewing the bulbs here, too. And, okay…this was getting a little weird, because none of the clothes he saw really looked like the kind of thing Patrick usually wore.
There were a lot of solid blacks with a few reds and greys. There were turtlenecks and zip ups and a tonne of sweaters and black jeans that probably would have fallen right off Patrick’s hips. Not to mention the fact that they would be several inches too long. There weren’t any hoodies or polos or any of the t-shirts Patrick particularly liked.
As Brendon was pondering this, he heard someone come in the front door, and the light went on in the hall. Brendon froze. He was not stealthy. He was the opposite of stealth. He was mostly just spazzy.
Briefly he considered hiding in the closet, but it was full of boxes and if he shifted just the slightest, the people downstairs and upstairs would both know he was there, let alone Patrick. He climbed on the bed to get to the window and looked out desperately. It was a straight drop to the parking lot below. He waited in complete silence, hoping to hear Patrick go in the bathroom or kitchen. Then he could sneak out the front door.
The door swung open and Brendon just froze, kneeling on the bed, acutely aware of how bare his legs were in the skirt, how the straps of the tank left his arms and back exposed. He was insanely happy for the bobbed wig, keeping his face mostly obscured. He gazed out from under the bangs of it to assess the situation. Maybe Patrick was really drunk, and Brendon could take advantage of his confusion, or something.
Except the man standing in the doorway wasn’t Patrick Stump.
Patrick stood framed by the hall light, blinking in confusion.
“Truth or Dare, Brendon?”
Like there was even a choice. Gabe could get away with choosing truth, because he basically lived his life like one big dare, and no on thought he was trying to get out of anything. Andy could choose truth because he was a cool, laid back, self-assured guy, and also could kick all their asses if they gave him shit. If Brendon chose truth, he’d be labelled a pussy forever. Besides, dares could be fun, right? Right…
“Dare.” Brendon wondered if his pause had been very noticeable.
William stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I honestly didn’t expect that,” he admitted. “I have to think about this.” He arched brow at his band and they put their heads together, whispering furiously.
Brendon looked hopefully at Spencer. He was scary. Maybe if he glared enough in William’s general direction, it could help Brendon’s case. But Spencer gave him this hand gesture/eye roll thing that told him he was totally on his own.
“Alright.” William straightened his shoulders, tossed back his hair and cleared his throat. “You have to break into Patrick’s apartment and mess shit up. And you have to do it in drag. Vicky gets to dress you, and Ryan can do your makeup.”
“Mess shit up?” Brendon echoed. “Like how?”
William huffed an annoyed breath. “I don’t know. Chew on some wires? Surprise me,” he said haughtily.
“What if he comes home?” Brendon protested. Seriously, pranking just about anyone other than Patrick would be alright, but Patrick scared him.
“Okay,” William said easily. “You nark on us and it’s the Keroroin.”
Brendon’s brow furrowed. “The-”
“Keroroin. There’s a goat, Crisco and confetti,” the Butcher explained. “You don’t want to find out.”
“Or?”
“Or you could just say you were there because you were secretly into him, blow him, and come out of it alive,” Adam said in a reasonable sort of way.
An hour and twenty minutes later, Brendon found himself outside Patrick’s apartment building, in front of the fire escape, facing the prospect of scaling the rusty, rickety ladder and ascending to the third floor. This alone was harrowing enough. But on top of that was the getup Vicky had put him in.
Vicky’s clothing really wasn’t meant to fit Brendon. She had nice curves and Brendon could fit into junior sizes. But she’d dug up slinky silver tank top that bloused at his chest to give the illusion that his bra wasn’t stuffed with socks. It was matched with a pleated black skirt that exposed the curve of his ass every time the wind picked up. And, okay, the high heels she’d given him were not made to scale ladders.
And to add insult to, well, insult (the injury would no doubt come later, when Patrick found out who’d done what to his apartment), Ryan had pulled out all the stops with his makeup. This went so far beyond anything Brendon had done on stage. With lots of shadowing and dark colours, he’d actually managed to give Brendon’s face a more feminine look. He almost didn’t recognise himself blinking back from the mirror-eyes rimmed in impossibly long lashes, cheeks fuller looking, lips peach coloured and glossy. Then Gabe had topped the whole thing off with a black bobbed wig that fell just below his chin. Brendon had to admit that it didn’t look entirely ridiculous.
“Surprise me,” he muttered to himself. What could possibly surprise William Beckett?
Along as ‘moral support,’ though perhaps better defined as assholes who’d come to laugh at his pain and make sure he didn’t try to get out of his dare, were the rest of Brendon’s band, Ryland and Tom. They waved encouragingly from the van at the corner.
Brendon sighed and resigned himself to his fate, even if that fate was to die of a broken neck. Which, really, was preferable to whatever Patrick would do to him when he found out about this.
It shouldn’t have been so easy to use one of the pins from his wig to unlatch the lock on the window of Patrick’s kitchen. The place was dark, but the light from the street lamp was enough that he could see a strange contradiction-the place was sparkling clean except for one half of the table, covered in half-eaten food, dirty dishes and random bottles and cans.
Brendon had always thought that when he was as wealthy and famous as Patrick that he’d have someone to do all his cleaning for him. But maybe it was just that Patrick was only staying here temporarily. Maybe he hadn’t had time to hire any help.
The hallway went two ways from the kitchen, one way branching off to the living room with a large flat screen television, a beaten up leather sofa, and a kit, a keyboard, and a guitar. He hadn’t known that Patrick was still playing drums, but the set looked well loved. Off the living room was a half-closed closet door from which was spilling a pile of clothing and shoes.
He went through the living room and kitchen, changing the time on all the clocks to random, mismatched times. It took him a good ten minutes on the floor in front of the entertainment centre, to switch all the DVDs to different cases. His sister had always got a good laugh doing that to him. And then he realised that the pranks he and his Mormon friends and family had played when he was a child were not the sort of pranks that would impress William.
While he was considering just what he could do, he explored the opposite hallway. The first door was a bathroom, mostly clean, but with a pile of dirty towels and clothing in the corner. He’d found some beef bouillon when he’d fucked up the kitchen. One of his friends in high school had told him about putting it under the showerhead, so that when the next person used it they came out smelling like soup.
Other friends in school had talked about the saran wrap on the toilet seat prank, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Patrick was, like, too dignified for Brendon to make him splash his piss all over the place. Also, too scary. Instead he just rubbed Vaseline on the toilet seat and unscrewed the light bulbs.
Patrick’s bedroom was the other door down that hall, and didn’t look much like what he’d expect of Patrick’s bedroom. It was all black, white and chrome with boldly coloured framed posters. Honestly, it didn’t look like the sort of room that Patrick would live in.
He went around the room doing stupid little things like, turning all the pictures around in their frames (and oddly, none of the people in the pictures were at all familiar), pulling all the clothing out of the drawers, and unscrewing the bulbs here, too. And, okay…this was getting a little weird, because none of the clothes he saw really looked like the kind of thing Patrick usually wore.
There were a lot of solid blacks with a few reds and greys. There were turtlenecks and zip ups and a tonne of sweaters and black jeans that probably would have fallen right off Patrick’s hips. Not to mention the fact that they would be several inches too long. There weren’t any hoodies or polos or any of the t-shirts Patrick particularly liked.
As Brendon was pondering this, he heard someone come in the front door, and the light went on in the hall. Brendon froze. He was not stealthy. He was the opposite of stealth. He was mostly just spazzy.
Briefly he considered hiding in the closet, but it was full of boxes and if he shifted just the slightest, the people downstairs and upstairs would both know he was there, let alone Patrick. He climbed on the bed to get to the window and looked out desperately. It was a straight drop to the parking lot below. He waited in complete silence, hoping to hear Patrick go in the bathroom or kitchen. Then he could sneak out the front door.
The door swung open and Brendon just froze, kneeling on the bed, acutely aware of how bare his legs were in the skirt, how the straps of the tank left his arms and back exposed. He was insanely happy for the bobbed wig, keeping his face mostly obscured. He gazed out from under the bangs of it to assess the situation. Maybe Patrick was really drunk, and Brendon could take advantage of his confusion, or something.
Except the man standing in the doorway wasn’t Patrick Stump.
Patrick stood framed by the hall light, blinking in confusion.